


Day 3: Poetry

by thebright1



Series: An Ineffable Plan: A Canon Compliant Love Story [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale Hates Dresses, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Erotic Poetry, F/M, Historical References, Ineffable Valentines 2020 (Good Omens), M/M, To His Mistress Going to Bed by John Donne, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:53:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22552810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebright1/pseuds/thebright1
Summary: Oh no, Crowley thinks. He does absolutely not want to turn around, because he knows that tingle and he knows that look in his new friend’s eye, like he’s seen a heavenly creature, and Satan help him, he actually has….
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: An Ineffable Plan: A Canon Compliant Love Story [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1620406
Comments: 3
Kudos: 151





	Day 3: Poetry

**Author's Note:**

> All the works in this series are also posted as a chaptered work for easier reading/downloading (and because I connected all the stories and should have done it this way to begin with): [ An Ineffable Plan](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23081191/chapters/55213303)

1595, Genoa, Italy. 

Crowley loves poets. They write inordinately beautiful things and are the most fun humans. They want to indulge in every sin and vice at least once, and usually more than once, so they can ‘write with authenticity’. They need very little tempting, and their words, if they’re any good, will usually cause a number of strong feelings, and some of those strong feelings will be the ones Hell really likes, like anger and hatred, but a majority of them will just be passion and lust, which Crowley thinks are much more fun. 

It’s around two in the afternoon and Crowley has been steadily drinking with his new friend John, since around 10 in the morning. John is traveling the continent while on holiday from school, is one of hell’s own, if Crowley does say so himself. He’s got loads of money, is studying to be a lawyer, writes poetry, drinks heavily, and loves women. Well… ‘loves’ in the physical sense. 

Right now, there is one particular woman that John cannot get to love him and it’s apparently making him crazy. He stinks of lust. “Crowley,” the young man says, “this woman… you do not understand, my friend. She is bellisima, she is divine!”

“And you’ve done flowers already, have you?” Crowley asks. He pours himself another glass of wine. This is their fifth bottle and it’s almost empty. John drinks with the enthusiasm of a 23 year old man… which he is. 

“Oh, you’ve no idea,” John moans. He puts his head in his hands. “The money I have spent on flowers…. I could have bought a garden. Not to mention the foods, the wines, the dresses, the underclothes..”

Crowley snorts. “You tried to buy her underclothes? This is a lady, we are talking about?”

John throws his hands up. He is English, but he has taken the idiom of ‘when in Rome’ literally, and acquired a tendency to gesticulate wildly when he is drunk. “She had accepted everything else, but no amount of subtelty seemed to be working. I thought the underclothes would surely send a sign of my intentions.”

“What did she do with them?”

“She kept them!”

Crowley laughs. “More fool you, I think, my friend. She’s seeing how much you’ll pay.” 

John sighs. “But she does not respond. I send gifts and I receive no thank you’s, but I do not receive the gifts back, either. I have used every traditional method I can think of.”

“And this poem you’re writing,” Crowley says, gesturing to the sheets of parchment and quill on the table. “This is what you think is going to win her over?”

His companion blushes. “I…. I hope it may… convey my feelings.”

“Which are?”

John leans toward Crowley and lowers his voice. “That I would very much like to spend a significant amount of time watching her undress and then fuck her until she forgets her own name.”

Crowley chortles. “You’re putting that in a poem?”

John looks affronted now. “Do you doubt me, sir?”

“Not at all, not at all,” Crowley says, draining his glass of wine. “I just find it hard to picture those words in a poem that I would ever read to a lady. Sounds more like a limerick to flatter a whore.”

John sits up straighter and holds his parchment in front of him. He raises his voice, 

“Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy,  
Until I labour, I in labour lie.”

“Well that’s the truth,” Crowley mutters. John glares at him. Crowley waves his hand for him to continue. 

“The foe oft-times having the foe in sight,  
Is tir’d with standing though he never fight.  
Off with that girdle, like heaven’s Zone glistering,  
But a far fairer world encompassing.  
Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear,  
That th’eyes of busy fools may be stopped there.”

“Well endowed, is she?”

“You have no idea.”

“Men!” 

Crowley and John turn to see a matronly woman standing over them. “You no use filthy words here. I not like hear this talk. I of Italy, I know real God rules, not false King and filthy talk!!”

John comes from a recusant family and looks immediately incensed. Crowley would very much like to come back to this pub, as the food is excellent and the wine is wonderful, so he waves a hand at John and then stands abruptly and bows. “My apologies, madam, my young friend here has simply had a bit too much to drink. Please accept our sincere condolences, and let the sin be all ours. Now, I had best get my friend to sober up and attend confession so he may complete his penance. In the meantime, let me pay for our drinks and your inconvenience.” He places a large amount of coin on the table and smiles at the proprietress. 

She melts a little at the sight of the money. “Yes, you go now. I pray God forgive.” She crosses herself. 

Crowley gathers up John’s parchment and stuffs it into the young man’s hands. “As well as I, madam, my young friend is too dear to perish in the flames of eternal hell.” 

The proprietress smiles at him now. “You good man, you help him learn.” 

“Yes, that I do-- I will teach him the ways of our Lord, and the beauty that is the everlasting love from the heart of Jesus through the voice of God on earth, his most holiness, Pope Clement.” 

Crowley grabs John’s arm and gently pulls him out of his chair. He begins to push him towards the door of the establishment. 

“Blessings to you, Signoire Crowley! Go with God!” she calls after them, as they saunter out the door and into the blazing Italian sunshine. 

Crowley holds up a hand in thanks that’s partly a wave and a coping mechanism. The blessing stings like a papercut. 

Once they’re outside, he pulls John down the street. “John, my friend, listen, if you want to bed this woman, I don’t know that your racy poetry is going to do the trick. She might be affronted, like our hostess back there.”

“But what will I do?’ he almost wails. “She is in all my thoughts, day and night!” He looks to be on the cusp of tears. “I can find solace only in her arms or at the bottom of a bottle.” 

Poets, Crowley thinks, rolling his eyes. “When will you see her again?” 

“I do not know when, I can only hope--”

“Yes, yes, when you do hope you will see her?”

“There is a party tonight-”

“Great, good, listen, I’ll see you there. Maybe there’s something I can do to help.”

John looks confused, then suspicious. “What would you do--”

Crowley puts an arm around his shoulders. “Let’s just say I have a way of being very persuasive. Did you see the proprietress back there? Gave me a blessing and everything.”

“You’re a silver tongued blasphemer, Crowley.” 

If you knew the half of it. “Just-- go back to your rooms and work on your poetry, yeah? What time is the party?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Several hours later, Crowley and John are decked out in all the finery the law will allow (and, honestly, a bit more, because John is a law student and Crowley is a demon). The ballroom is crowded, the champagne is flowing. The cream of Genoa’s society is here, beauty and wealth and charm. 

John is sulking and Crowley is losing patience. Maybe he doesn’t love poets, after all. But if the beginning of that poem was any indication, it’s one long ode to lust and sin that’s sure to get him a few commendations in Hell when his young friend finds someone willing to publish it (and he will because he’s rich and good looking and going to be a lawyer, so he’s not stupid). 

“I wrote more this afternoon, would you like to hear it?” John asks.

“Is it as racy as the bits before?”

“Moreso, I think.”

“Well if you’re going to read it aloud we should-“ Crowley stops, suddenly. He feels a tingle run up his spine, like…

“There she is!” John breathes. He gestures behind Crowley. 

Oh no, Crowley thinks. He does absolutely not want to turn around, because he knows that tingle and he knows that look in his new friend’s eye, like he’s seen a heavenly creature, and Satan help him, he actually has…. 

“Miss Fell,” John says. He looks strangely at Crowley who has not turned around, and then gently nudges him. “Allow me to introduce my friend, Mister-“

Well, there’s nothing for it. Crowley turns and there is Aziraphale, in his female form, all luscious curves and creamy skin, with, yes, a wonderful décolletage quivering above the top of his elegant dress. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale says, giving him a beaming smile. 

Crowley can’t help himself. He smiles back. “Oh, hello Angel.”

“Angel?!” John is taken aback and— oh no, Crowley has to fix this immediately. “Do you two know each other?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says at the same time that Crowley says, “No.”

There is a strained pause. Aziraphale’s companion, a tiny slip of a woman who is dwarfed by the voluminous layers of her bright blue and very expensive evening wear. “I beg your pardon-“

“Forgive my manners,” Crowley jumps in. “I am Mister Crowley, and this is my friend, Mr John Donne. Miss Fell and I are acquainted… childhood friends, you could say, although it has been many years since we have seen each other. And you miss—“

“Ohh,” Aziraphale flutters… literally, bringing up a fan and furiously waving it back and forth. His cleavage wiggles to and fro. Crowley sucks in a deep breath and pulls his eyes away, stepping gently on John’s foot to get the young man’s attention away from his friend’s bosom as well. “Allow me to present Mrs. Elena Boni, a dear friend of mine.”

Crowley smiles. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance.” He kisses her hand, and then stands aside so that John may do the same. 

“A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Donne,” Mrs. Boni smiles. 

Pleasantries taken care of, John is rattled but undeterred. He glances pointedly at Crowley. “So you and Miss Fell are childhood friends?”

Aziraphale is still blushing and fanning himself. “We have known each other a long time,” he dissembles. “But I had no idea you were in Genoa.”

Crowley shrugs. “Just passing through, really. I met John a few nights ago. He’s a poet.” 

“Oh!” Aziaphale’s face lights up. “I had no idea. How charming! What kind of poetry do you write, Mr. Donne? Hopefully something to inspire love and piety to the Almighty?”

Crowly coughs to cover his snicker.

John’s smile falters a bit. “Well, some of my poems are about my faith. I am a Catholic, you know.”

Mrs. Boni suddenly lights up. “Really? An Englishman and a Catholic?”

“Yes,” Crowley drawls. “John is a devout Catholic. He even went to confession today, didn’t you?”

John’s eyes shoot daggers at Crowley, who smiles. “It is not yet Sunday, so I have many days left to find myself before a priest so that I may partake in the sacrament.” 

“I can’t believe my dear friend John would have any sins he would need to confess,” Aziraphale says gently. He pats John’s arm gently. John somehow manages to look both proud and ashamed. 

“Now, Miss. Fell,” Mrs. Boni chides, “that is between John and the Almighty. Mayhaps he covets something that he cannot have.” She glances to John and then over to Crowley. 

Crowley smiles. “How perceptive, Mrs. Boni. Coveting is the sin that I think all of us might find ourselves guilty of when faced with so much beauty as there is in this room tonight.” 

“My husband often said that parties brought out the sinner in all of us, God rest his soul.”

John’s manners kick in. “Oh, I am so sorry, Mrs. Boni, I did not realize you were a widow. Please accept my condolences for your loss.”

Mrs. Boni smiles. “I accept them, but he has been gone some three years now. While I will always miss him, I find myself quite lonely. Miss Fell has been my friend and my guide as I begin to expose myself to the wonders of the world, as my late husband implored me to.” 

“You are on tour then?” Crowley asks, ostensibly to Mrs. Boni, but he’s looking at Aziraphale. 

“Yes, for the summer at least.” 

Crowley puts an arm around John. “Then you and my dear friend Mr. Donne have much in common. English, Catholic-- is this your first time in Genoa?”

“It is,” she agrees. “Miss Fell and I have been enjoying the most wonderful food.”

“I am sure, Mrs. Boni,” he drawls. 

“Oh, please, call me Elena.”

Aziraphale is glaring at him. John is glaring at him. Mrs. Boni-- Elena-- is beaming. 

“Miss Fell, Mrs. Boni--”

“Elena,” the young lady insists. She smiles widely at John. “If I may be so bold.” Crowley can feel the lust dripping off her. 

John seems to be considering something. “Elena, then, will you please excuse my friend and I for just a moment so that we might have a short business discussion?”

“Only if you will promise me a dance later,” she says. “I have read Il Ballarino and I have been practicing the steps in my rooms. I am eager to try with a partner, especially all these years.” 

John is taken aback, but nods. “Certainly. Please excuse us, Miss Fell.”

He drags Crowley into an adjoining room, filled with men smoking and quietly playing cards. 

“Crowley!” he admonishes. “She’s given my dresses to her friend!”  
Crowley guffaws. “She what?”

“That dress that Mrs-- that Elena has on-- it’s the one I sent her!” 

“I wonder if she’s wearing the underclothes.”

“Crowley!”

“You can’t deny Elena has definitely taken a liking to you. And she’s a widow on holiday.”

“I must speak to Miss Fell. She must have mistaken my intentions.”

“No, I don’t think she has.” Crowley shakes his head. “I’m very sorry to say, but you will never get anywhere with Miss Fell.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“I mean, I have known her for her entire life. And I still call her Miss Fell. She’s a cold fish, John. Like a diamond-- beautiful to look at, but hard and unforgiving. Like an angel-- beautiful, but untouchable for mere mortals.” 

John is crestfallen. “Then there is no hope?”

Crowley puts an arm around his shoulders. “Only what can be found in the arms of another. I should know. I’ve spent most of my life chasing her. I came to Genoa to forget… and look what follows me.”

“She smiled at you,” John says softly. “Her face glowed like an angel.” 

“And that is the most I have ever received in terms of favor.”

John looks to be on the verge of tears. “A love I can never know, a love of fantasy for an angel, a heaven like Mahomet’s Paradise…”

Crowley does not like messing in the minds of mortals. But neither can he stand to see a young man’s heart so thoroughly broken. “Look, John, let me . . . let me talk to Miss Fell. Maybe there’s something I can do. Besides, you owe Elena a dance.” He leads John back to the ballroom. 

Once John and Elena are on the dancefloor, Crowley discreetly gestures to the door of the balcony at Aziraphale. They leave separately, and find each other outside. There are a few couples milling about on the balcony. No one notices them slip into the shadows by the side of the house, well hidden from prying human eyes. 

“What’s the matter?” Aziraphale hisses. 

“What’s the matter? What are you doing here? And looking like that!”

Aziraphale straightens and frowns. “It’s the height of fashion. I was even given a hard time by one of the magistrates on my way here who said the gold trim was too much, and I should be warned to keep my dress covered until I arrived at the party.” The gold trim in question is clinging admirably to Aziraphale’s bosom, glinting in the moonlight. 

“And why didn’t he demand a payment, do you think?”

“I am a lady!” Aziraphale whips out the fan again, directly the air at his bosom. “Oh, these layers are frightfully hot! And my breasts are sweating! This is a terrible assignment.”

Crowley absolutely does not think about undressing Aziraphale, unpinning the spangled breastplate and licking beads of sweat away. 

“Aziraphale, you’ve been giving John’s gifts to Mrs. Boni.”

Aziraphale frowns. “Well, they were for her.”

“What?”

“They must have been-- they weren’t my color at all. Lots of blues. And Elena is so very beautiful in blue…. ”

Crowley thinks blue would set off Aziraphale’s eyes magnificently, but does not say this. “They were not for Mrs. Boni.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. “Well, who were they for.”

Crowley takes off his glasses. His eyes glow yellow in the night. “You! They were for you, Angel. John has been trying to court you!”

“Whatever for?” Aziraphale asks, confusion evident in his voice. “I’ve got no fortune, well, none that I have advertised, mind you. No lineage…” 

“He wants to bed you.”

“He what?? He wants… to me?”

“Oh, come on you can’t really be that naive, can you?”

Aziraphale sniffs. “I am not naive, Crowley. I am a being of love. I don’t talk about . . . bedding strangers. I don’t know the first thing about it.”

“Angel, you look like sin on legs,” Crowley admits. Aziraphale looks horrified. Crowley takes a step forward, waving his hands. “It’s not a bad thing, it’s just…. You’re beautiful, and this outfit, these dresses, they just accentuate everything that looks so wonderful about you.” Crowley cannot believe these words have just come out of his mouth. He swallows hard. “You’re always beautiful.” 

“You think I’m beautiful?” Aziraphale asks in a small voice. “Really?”

“I’m not the only one. John has been writing erotic poetry about you.”

Aziraphale’s eyes go wide. “Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes,” Crowley counters. He steps closer, invading Aziraphale’s space. “He’s got a whole fantasy about taking off all the fine clothes he’s been sending you and, in his exact words, ‘fucking you until you can’t remember your name’.”

Aziraphale snaps his fan shut. “Well that’s just rude. Sometimes, Crowley, these coarse humans are just . . . just quite a lot.” He huffs. “I didn’t know he felt that way. I never felt any love about him.”

“He’s not in love, Angel. He’s in lust.”

Aziraphale crosses his arms over his chest. “That’s your department. Why don’t you just ‘fuck him until he can’t remember your name’.” 

“It’s can’t remember your own name.”

“What?”

“He wants to-- oh, nevermind. Also, did you-- did you just swear?” 

“Oh, I’m so frustrated, Crowley!” Aziraphale looks to be on the edge of tears. He collapses in a heap of skirt to a stone bench. “I’ve been trying to find poor Mrs. Boni a suitor and it’s not working. I’ve introduced her to a number of different men, but none of them seem to be what she wants. I’ve tried to find a love match for her, but it just seems impossible. She goes on and on about her poor dead husband, but I can’t bring him back from the grave three years later-- Gabriel just did a long presentation on the miracles that we absolutely positively should not be performing and that one was top of the list!” 

Crowley sits down next to Aziraphale. He pulls a handkerchief from his coat sleeve and offers it to her. “There, there, Angel, you’ll mess up your pretty paints.” 

“This has been one of the hardest assignments I’ve had, Crowley. I hate these awful dresses, and I don’t think Mrs. Boni likes me very much at all, even though I’ve tried my best to be as kind as possible. And now you’re telling me that I’ve accidentally tempted a poet into writing lascivious things and I didn’t even realize I was doing it!” 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says softly. “What exactly were you told to do for Mrs. Boni?”

Aziraphale dabs at his eyes and sniffs. “I was told to bring her to Italy, get her settled, and make arrangements for her to have a baby… Apparently this is a long game God’s playing… Mrs. Boni is to be the grandmother to a great poet.” 

“A great poet.” Crowley says flatly. He thinks about the smell of lust pouring from Mrs. Boni. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale sniffs again. “And I’ve tried to find her a husband, Crowley, but-”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley begins. “I think I have a solution for you.” 

“You do?”

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a series of drabbles and vignettes for the Ineffable Valentines challenge on Tumblr. Thank you to everyone who has left Kudos and comments so far!


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